


i haven't lived life, i haven't lived love

by cherrykirsch



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (It's kinda implied lmao), Bottom Hanzo Shimada, Breasts, Comfort, Drunken Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Flirting, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Introspection, Neck Kissing, No Plot/Plotless, Nudity, Partial Nudity, Power Exchange, Regret, Sensuality, Smoking, Touching, boob touching, casual nudity, casual touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 04:28:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17912033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrykirsch/pseuds/cherrykirsch
Summary: A moment between two decidedly not-good people, who just happen to be right for each other.





	i haven't lived life, i haven't lived love

They meet in a private room in Kabukicho, deep in the heart of Japan’s red-light district in a private room, bathed in the technicolor lights of the town that never sleeps. Her dress, deep midnight velvet scattered with crystals that sparkle when she twists to tap the ash from her cigarette, slips down over her left shoulder and exposes her chest and she doesn’t bother to fix it; they have become more than intimate with each other’s bodies, she doesn’t mind him seeing her like this.

In the scattered light, her skin looks almost normal, just darker.

He has unbuttoned his pin-stripe waistcoat, and his tie has been pulled from his neck, and he reclines as far back as he can in the seat, the fingers of his left-hand curl around the neck of a bottle and a dainty blue cup patterned with tiny white flowers rests in his right. Almost rhythmically he pours a large helping of the sake into the cup before lifting it to his lips, drinking quickly and closing his eyes as he swallows, savoring the taste.  
He always waits at least two minutes before he helps himself to another cup, just to show himself that he has some restraint. But she knows he’s burying something at the bottom of each of the five empty bottles that lie discarded on the table between them

Widowmaker stubs out her cigarette on the intricate crystal ash tray between them and stands, hips swaying as she carefully moves around the table and perches on Hanzo’s knee as he pours another cup of sake. His hand wraps around her waist and pulls her closer, and she watches his face as he lifts the cup to his lips and then stops, his eyes as black as ink in the darkness of the room. He moves the cup to her lips instead, and she drinks.  
She takes a long sip and closes her eyes as the fruity aroma fills her nose, she swallows her mouthful down and then goes again, this time draining the cup. His hand holding the cup stays at her lips long after she swallows the second mouthful, and she takes the opportunity to reach for the cup and bottle, slipping them from his hands with little resistance.

She places them on the floor at his feet. He doesn’t move to recover them.

He just watches her, his dark eyes watching her body move, catching on her hips and collarbone. They flit down to her exposed chest and he places his hand over her breast with a movement so contradictory to his callous and abrasive self, and she watches him as his fingers stroke the softness of her skin, his thumb brushing over her nipple, and then his hand moves up, over her shoulder and down her arm. He strokes her arm for a while, and then he moves to her right shoulder and hooks his fingers in the strap and pulls it down her arm.

Sometimes it shocks her how careful he is with her. And she is bare to him, her skin is his to kiss, to mark if he so chooses. But he just moves his hands to her breasts and touches, and he isn’t looking at her.

“Is there something on your mind?” She asks, and her hands circle his shoulders, move down to the buttons of his shirt and start to undo them. His chest is exposed to her little by little, and she sees the beginning of that beautiful, intricate tattoo that remind her of the beautiful decorative plates he has at his family’s home. “You seem… quiet.”

Hanzo is looking down at the valley between her breasts, stroking the skin there almost tenderly. “There are always things on my mind.” He says after a while. “Things I need to remember and things I wish to forget, but my mind keeps… keeps getting distracted by the past.”

Widowmaker hums carefully and leans down to kiss his neck, and he shivers at the touch, when she pulls back, her lipstick colours his skin beautiful black. “What kind of distractions?” She asks lightly. “Family?” He stiffens beneath her. “Ah, I see.” 

A low growl escapes his throat, but he doesn’t move to push her off him. “You _do not_ see.” He says, teeth grit. “I did what I did because… because it was my _duty_! Because it was for the greater good of the rest of my family! _Because_ … because he _fucked up_ , and I had to clean up his mess.”

Her fingers travel upwards, cradle his chin gently and make his eyes meet hers. “You did something to someone you loved.” She says and he pales considerably although his face is still stormy, painted with anger and his body trembles beneath her. “There is no need to feel ashamed, _mon chéri_. You said it yourself; you did what was best.”

“I…” Hanzo begins, his voice hoarse and he gasps, lifting a hand from her breast to push back his hair and keep his fingers tangled there, and she notices the slivers of moonlight grey hairs amongst the dark black. “I… Yes. I did what was best, I… preserved the clan for years… but… but… Father…”

The hand tangled in his hair moves around to hold his head, and Widowmaker’s hands drop from his face as she cradles him gently in her arms, like a mother soothing a crying child. She feels him breathing unsteadily against her bare skin, hears his desperation to avoid crying.

“You think you’ve disappointed him,” She says, and Hanzo draws in a sharp breath of air. “He’s long dead. What does it matter now?”

“It…” Hanzo begins and then he cuts himself off with a quiet murmur, a new train of thought. “But… I didn’t… there was no _body_.”

Widowmaker bends her head down to his ear, tangles her finger in his hair and strokes his head gently and he melts like candle wax into her. “Just say the word, _mon chéri_.” She whispers, her hot breath brushing over his cheek. “Say the word and I’ll tell you all that I know. I care for you; I care for your wellbeing and I… I would just _hate_ to see you _suffer_.”

The room is as silent as death and for a moment Widowmaker thinks that he won’t ask, that he won’t want to pay the price for what he learns, but then he nuzzles his face between her breasts and kisses her gently there and says oh-so softly, “Tell me. Please.”

Her hands begin to stroke his hair. “Your clan has a traitor, one of them is not like the others; they are trying to tear you down.” She tells him very carefully and very matter-of-factly. “They are hiding a secret from you.”

Hanzo is silent as he trails hot, slow kisses up her chest, and she tilts her head down so he can cover her neck in kisses and move to her cheek and then finally her lips. They kiss for a while, his tongue brushing her bottom lip, and when they pull away, his mouth is stained with her lipstick and she laughs, smudging the corner of his lips with a thumb.

“And now what do you have for me?” She asks, lowing her voice an octave and his hands grip her hips just a little tighter as she plays with a lock of his hair. “I trust the information I have given you is enough.”

He lifts her hand and kisses her knuckles, staring up at her with a smirk. “Of course.” He says as he kisses every finger and fingertip. “How does an entire crate of illegal firearms sound? With some Japanese cigarettes thrown in too, of course, my _Hime_.”

Widowmaker laughs again, something small and sweet and she caresses his face, captures his lips in a sweet kiss. “Oh, _thank you_ , that will be more than enough.”

In that room, where they meet once a month in an engagement that has been going on for two years now, she wraps him around her little finger and lend him her body. He gives her a pleasure she hasn’t felt in a long time, something that leaves both gasping as they grip each other’s supple skin; he bruises, she does not. He calls her beautiful, he loves her skin, and he kisses her so privately and intimately she almost forgets that there was a time where she thought herself… adequate, where her skin was more of an unwelcome side effect rather than something to be adored.

He makes her feel adored. And she makes him feel safe, she takes control and marks him with her lips and nails and devours the dragon that got caught in her web, her hair cascades down her back and his fingers are tangle in it one hour and plaiting it and combing it so gently the next.

_It is purely business_. She tries to convince herself. _For the best interest of Talon_.

But a year later, when he disappears and leaves her behind, she feels for the very first time lost. She isn’t sure anymore, what he means to her and what she means to him. But the letter comes to her at night, carried by the most beautiful and dainty bird she has ever seen, and he tells her where to find him.

It reminds her of a time before, in some way, of the man that Amelie used to call her husband, her and Hanzo’s touches and embraces, their skin brushing against each other. But it isn’t the same, and she much prefers it—she isn’t a good person, she has killed just to kill, spilled blood and smiled and she feels alive at the moment of the kill, but… but Hanzo isn’t a good person either.

One of them isn’t better or worse than the other and she likes it like that. The only difference is that the person he loves—loved—is still alive. Not that it matters.

And, like a fool in love, she goes to him.


End file.
